The Forsaken Leaf
by TheAtaniBookWorm
Summary: In another universe, Middle Earth had not one prince of Mirkwood but two. Aranduil has been neglected all his life by his father, under the shadow of his showy younger brother. When orcs come and kidnaps him, will it be his end...or a new beginning? Male!Elf!OC
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so first story! I'm new to writing on this site and also doing this for fun but reviews would always help improve the story.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit. Aranduil is my OC and a few background OC's not really important to this fic. Happy reading! And I hope Tolkien forgives me...

The Forsaken Leaf

I - A Proud Facade

Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right.

-Murtagh from the Inheritence Cycle.

There are many tales and legends to be told in Middle-Earth. But every story must come from a source.

That is life. A person's own adventure. The record of events leading from the start of their journey to the very end, that is death.

And a journey must have a path. What kind of path is up to the one who takes it. Sometime's the person isn't even fully aware of what lies ahead but we never do don't we? That is the fun of such adventures. They are unexpected. You can never tell what happens next.

But let us focus on one particular story. Of someone who had to take the first step to tread on the road that will pull him into the adventure he so desperately needed but does not know it himself. Beginners are always hesitant when they start their venture.

There are a few things you should know about him.

He isn't what you would call good in personality or attittude. Not modest and certainly not kind. He never dares showed kindness but not for the reason you think. Alas, ever since a young age he had never beated a single warm beat from his heart, nor thought of fighting to the death for something or someone he cared for (if he had any left that is).

No. His heart was frozen in an icey cage of what was created by hate, anger, fear and, the most dreadful feeling of all, loneliness.

He had a long way to go until he could grasp any source of virtuous traits. But the path he took was long and riveting. And that is more than enough. The adventures gave him what he was missing and taught him things he should have learned years ago.

You should know who I'm talking about...

What do you mean you don't know who?

His name runs down the history of the lands of Arda itself. Forever an example to show there was simply no limits to the power of bonds thicker than blood. That there was a difference between courage and bravery.

Aranduil, son of Thranduil the Elvenking of Mirkwood.

"Lieutenant Aranduil! Sir!"

Aranduil, in all his proud demeanor, turned his head that was crowned with silvery yellow hair like stardust. It went straight down to his waist, silky and smooth. The soldier tried not to stare as it flowed gently like rippling water. His eyes were kept on the blonde beauty's forehead. Because those icey blue eyes colder than a raging blizzard gazed at him mercilessly. They made a shiver run down the looker's spine.

"What news do you bring me? I told you not to leave your post." Aranduil snapped in his arctic tone.

In spite of being older than the lieutenant the soldier cladded in golden armor shied away from his voice. It was another thing to be in the prescense of Aranduil the Brilliant. Aura that surrounded him was demanding respect and acknowledgement.

The blonde was handsome even amongst the elves, almost beautiful but with such harsh eyes and cold voice he was unapproachable. It was once rumored he even sent entire nest of spiders running with just his ice glare pointed at them.

Pulling himself together, the soldier did as told "It's not good sir, there are spiders attacking the front gate as we speak."

If possible, those bright icey blue eyes flashed a brighter and colder glint. Aranduil paused in his disbelief of spiders descending on their territory head on. Then again, it mattered not. They have another thing entirely when he deals with them.

Brushing past the soldier as if he was never ther in the first place Aranduil strode to the door and slammed it open with so much power it most likely gave a few cracks on the wall. He barked orders at his men to get armed and start forming the defence formations outside. With his bow in hand and quiver reloaded with newly sharpened arrows he made his way down the various halls and passages.

The palace was a laybrinth unless you've spent years living in these walls and lucky for him he did. He knew every twist and turn, memorized were each bridge and path leaded to, knew where was what and how long it had been there. Every nook and cranny was printed in his mind, like a detailed map.

Knowing the place better than the architects, he used the shortcuts to reach the entrance and exit of the palace faster. By the time he had gotten there he was met with the sight of three gaurds holding back the doors with obvious strain.

With his sharp elf ears he could hear the vile hisses from the abominations outside. It also irked him when he could tell there were so many of them.

That made him feel even more furious. They musterd up the guts to come and assault them in their most heavily gaurded location in the palace. He plucked out one arrow from his quiver and readied his bow.

"Stand aside! Open the doors! Ready your weapones!" He commanded.

The armed elves scrambled to open the large heavy palace doors. The rays of the sunlight outside seeped in as they parted. It lit up the rather gloomy place with its bright streams of light. Aranduil heard his men ready themselves behind him. He glanced back and orderd two to cover him.

Two brunett's stepped forward bravely and stood beside him in each side. Satisfied, the blonde stared ahead at the opened entrance. He made a noise of distaste as he saw his guess was right. Like a huge pungent wave of shadows, groups of large black spiders came barreling down from trees and the dark cover of the shades.

The spiders, spawned by an ancient monster, are fat-bodied, as big as a man, have great hairy legs and wicked nippers with which they use to sting and numb their prey.

Arrows poured down from above. None missing to hit its targets. The archers from the balconies were doing their job. Now it was their turn.

Without batting an eyelid, he dashed forward wordlessly. He braught his bow up and fired an arrow. It flew in a straight line and burried itself through one of the grotesque monsters heads. As if that was a signal to start, the elves lined behind him charged.

Two more arrows came from behind him -wizzing pass his ears by a hair- and killed two spiders infront of him. His hands moved in an inhumanly fast pace as he worked to shoot arrow after arrow. His shots landed exactly were he wanted them. It paid off training most of his time.

While he crossed the bridge that connected to the woods he hopped on one spider to another and planted an arrow on their heads each time and repeated the process. A spider had lunged at him but it wasn't quick enough when he shot an arrow right into its mouth.

While his back was turned another spider was about to attack him from behind. It crawled towards him until it was close enough but its tactic failed as Aranduil sensed the spider. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow he embedded in the spiders mouth and forcefuly pulled it out drawing a cry of pain from the injured spider. He ignored that and spun around gracefuly with great speed and stabbed the creeping spider in the eye. Not waitting for another secont to pass, he kicked the side spider's head causing it to fall over the bridge and fall into the darky depths were it belonged. He whirled back to his previouse apponent and put the suffering creature out of its misery with his dagger.

Turning around, he saw more spiders coming forward. It worried him why they assaulted so suddenly and in great numbers no less. Where they growing braver? Or more desperate? He needed to report this to the captain when he gets back from his mission.

Another arrow flew passed him snapped him out of his thoughts. He let out a 'tsk' and shot another arrow. When more just kept coming closer he braught out his twin blades seathed behind the midsection of his waist. He advanced further by stabbing and killing every spider that came in his way. His moves were swift, flowing like water. Although fighting was serious for him at any rate it was similar to a dance to him. A dance were he made sure his moves were planned and precise. Often times he quickly went for the kill never caring for any showy skills and swings, he wasn't like his brother. When he has the chance he'll get it over with.

More elves rushed forward, moving farther into the woods and trees. They managed to push their enemies back, prompting them to chase after the retreating side.

Looking up Aranduil saw a sturdy branch. He ran to gain speed then jumped an impressive hight. His free arm hooked around it and used it as leverage to swing himself onto another one on his feet. He recieved a good vantage point and started knotched more arrows from the trees. Most of his men joined him up on other trees, shooting their arrows at the spiders below. Few stayed on the ground too locked in the battle they faced. From the corner of his eyes he spotted one of his men get tackled by three spiders. He quickly discharged multiple arrows at once to save the struggling elf.

A sudden hiss caught his attention. Whirling around he saw an arachnid coming for him. Its large jaws tried to bite his head off, luckily he backed up dodging the attack and pulled out his blade in the nick of time to block another bite. The arachne gave a virulent growl. It was replied with an equaly hateful glare.

"Gealdir!" Aranduil called to the elf firing arrows nearby as he used both of his hands to push back the spider. Said elf saw him jerk his head to the direction where the elf that was cornerd and outnumberd. Gealdir obeyed and went back down to save the elf in need.

His attention was now back to his opponent. Using all of his strength he pushed back the spider. It fell of the branch -hitting more on its way down- and landed violently on its back ending its life there.

Aranduil began running and leaping to other branches all the while shooting more arrows. It was then when he ran out of amo he slid down a branch on his feet and got back on the ground. Registering the surroundings he came to a realization of where he stood.

A nest.

The huge webs they spin shroud the trees and festoon their branches. The threads of these webs are unnaturaly thick and sticky, and once caught in, it is very hard to escape.

It wasn't long for a mass of giant spiders to surround him in a circle. Aranduil looked unimpressed as they drew closer. His mind worked to create a plan of attack. Bringing his blades up and getting into a defensive stance he let his body and mind go calm. When the spiders jumped on him, he found that familiar rhythm.

"Alakir, is anyone fataly wounded?" Aranduil inquired the auburn haired elf.

The spiders were taken care of. They killed many, the rest had made a run for it back into the shadows knowing they had been defeated for now. The lieutenant watched as his men marched back into the palace not looking too worse for ware but sporting a few minor bruises and cuts. This had to be the largest assault the spiders had made.

Alakir was an elf he respected for his earnesty and seriousness. He was one of the very few people he trusted to carry out his orders without question. He may be a low-classed blood but it took him a small amount of time to obtain respect from Aranduil. Out of his men it was commonly Alakir who spoke to Aranduil when it came to just casual talk. Not that they were really friends more like acquaintances, their conversations abrupt and neutral.

"None." Alakir shook his head "Nothing time won't fix."

Icey blue eyes shifted away from the rest of the elves and on to Alakir. Aranduil examined him closely then raised an intent eyebrow "You're shoulder."

Alakir looked at his bleeding shoulder. The wound stretched from his shoulder front to his chest right bellow the collar of his neck. His hand grasped the wound tightly. A pained grunt escaped his lips.

"Just a flesh wound, I'll go see a healer." He went ahead to follow his fellow gaurds to the healing room when his lieutenant stopped him.

"It's not just a flesh wound if a spider made it." Aranduil stated "Let me do it."

Before the confused and slightly surprised auburn could speak the blonde strode past him not sparing him a glance. When he heard no steps following him, Aranduil glanced back and saw the bleeding elf still standing there a hesitant look on his fair face with his eyes a bit wide.

"Well?" The lieutenant waited impatiently "Are you waiting until you bleed to death?"

"Uh...no sir" Alakir replied and hastily caught up with his superior.

So now the two were alone in a private healing room. A nervous low-class sitting stiffly on the chair as Aranduil tended to his injury. His reaction to the lieutenant offering to treat his injury was caused by the rarity of Aranduil willingly deciding to heal someone. It wasn't like he held no skill in healing, quite the opposite as his healing abilities rivaled their best healers combined, he just didn't care. Unless it was absolutely necessary or it was he himself who was in need of healing.

The blonde was rubbing some mixed herbs and ointment on the gash after whiping the blood away. The room was silent of anything except the low whispery chanting coming from Aranduil. Bottles and jars of various herbs and medicine were spread out on the counter.

Not recognizing the pattern of ingredients used, the gaurd figured out he was being healed by one of Aranduil's exclusive brews. He did hear a rumor that their lieutenant made his own medicine and ointment for healing that worked effectively on the worse illnesses and injuries. Aranduil began wrapping the elf's shoulder with clean bandages.

In truth he only healed Alakir because he wanted time. The attack of the spiders was no small event and needed to be reported. The captain was gone leaving him temporarily in charge hence he was expected to give the report on the events that happened during the battle. It wasn't the report he was hesitant, it was who he was going to give it to. The Elvenking of Mirkwood. His father.

Yes, he was stalling. He wasn't too eager to face his father most days. There was always that tension that hung in the air whenever they were in the same room. He had no idea how the other felt or thought about him but it seemed clear in his words and eyes. You can tell how low he was regarded by his adad from his eager want of avoidance.

"Thank you sir." Alakir dipped his head gratefuly. He flexed his shoulders to test its condition and felt no stinging pain, but a light numbness.

Aranduil nodded back. Without another word to say he went along to returning the herbs to the cabinets. The gaurd stood, grabbed his tunic and dressed it back on.

A knock came from the door. It opened not waiting for a response and an elf-maiden poked her head inside the room. Her grassy green eyes landed on the auburn elf then to the sparkling haired lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Aranduil, your father summons you." She informed him.

It was time. He internaly sighed "In a moment."

Seeing as he had no reason to stay any longer Alakir excused himself. He gave the maiden a soft smile and left the room. Shutting close the last cabinet Aranduil steeled himself. He grabbed his bow he left on the table and slung on the quiver. His body wasn't injured except for the one bruise he had on his back but he could ignore it.

The she-elf waited outside up till the lieutenant came out. She smiled at him kindly "May I accompany you there Aranduil?" she asked.

His stoic expression didn't change, "Do as you wish." He didn't wait for her to say anything else and started walking.

His companion followed at his side, falling into step with him. She had to be the sole elf who could call him Aranduil and nothing else and get away with it. It couldn't be helped, she was his handmaiden when he was but an elfling.

Despite their interactions not really conveying closeness between the two it was as close anyone would be able to get to the cold blonde. Just getting away with calling him 'Aranduil' was a mighty feat alone!

But it was more depressing in her case. As she glanced at the elf warrior she rememberd the once sweet and bright young elf. Oh, those days seem like they happened a mere week ago.

Now looking at the current Aranduil she mourned the loss. The child had grew, grew then dissapeared. This person next to her was nothing but a hollow shell. A shell of what was once a pure soul that held so much kindness and potential but now thrived in a cold bitterness of hate. A terrifying form of icey loathing that was passionate like fire. It scared her but saddened her more.

They could have been friends just like when she was but a young adult -in elf years- working in the palace for the first time and he a beautiful little elfling -in elf years- that possesed so many talents.

And she had one person to blame.

They turned to enter the great Halls of Thranduil. Aranduil strode in confidently with his head held high and shoulders firm in a regal poise. Those who noted his prescense -which was everyone in the halls- acknowledged it with bowing their heads in his direction. Everybody knew who he was. Not just the lieutenant of the Royal Gaurds but an elf of higher blood. Those who met him would see the true epitome of a royal.

Delicately carved, clear-cut face inherited from his father. Elegant as any prince and feirce as a warrior combined his dignified posture. If these physical traits weren't satisfying then the sheer fluid movements and the way he held himself was a sure sign of his standing. Shoulders pressed and firm, back rod straight, and expression calm and placid. His aura commanded for respect as of a king. But his eyes snapped at you to get out of his way.

The lieutenant of the Royal Gaurds, a rigorous, severe, and august elf, with a pale complexion as white as snow and long, luminous, silver blond hair. He was indeed tall, strong, and graceful as a maturing tree in the Woodland realm.

Underneath that seamless disguise eyes see lies a very different character.

He walked down the passage he had been dreading to cross. Travelers and guests saw this place sullen, with its dim lighting and depressed vibes the walls held but he saw it differently, he had come to appreciate the sense of ancient wonder the palace had. The bridged like well carved branches, the indoor fountains with statues that held a story behind each of them, the glamorous bits and peices that added some grandness to the place.

He would admit his home wasn't just ancient but portrayed faded glory. No matter how many marvelous crafts they decorate the realm with its glory days had passed long ago.

This is what they were now. Not Greenwood of Old where the trees and grass were once the greenest in all of Middle-Earth, where the water was crystal clear and not sick and mirky, and where the palace of the proud Greenwood elves resided with their King -they still were proud but a lot less cheery and more resentful-. The woods were sublime, until tragedy struck.

They were nearing the flight of stairs that leaded to the dark oaken doors of the throne room. He wished it felt like eternity to get to the stairs with every tense breath he took but the truth was he was a couple of ways away then the next thing he knew he had his foot on one of the steps.

"Your brother was asking for you after the battle."

His train of thought crashed. It was only a quick glance with his eyes but it gave her some encouragment to continue. She'd done this before, she never gave up trying or will she ever stop trying.

"He watched you fight, I say he looked quite exhillerated." She commented. Inside her hundred-year-old mind she prayed to the Valar this would succeed just a little bit.

"Did he now?" That tone stomped on her tiny ray of hope. It was the same tone he used whenever someone displeased him. She was walking on thin ice now. Very, very dangerous ice.

She put on a facade of a casual composure, "Yes." She confirmed, "As if inspiration struck him like lightning."

"Alali-"

"Maybe you could give him some tips or better yet, teach him sometime-"

"Alali!" He repeated more forceful, feeling annoyed and his anger flared. Getting her attention he said firmly, "You may leave."

Alali opened her mouth to say more. She wanted to be persistent about this but he shot her a warning look. Her face lowerd in defeat and nodded. The raven haired elf-maiden turned, she left the bitter lieutenant there by the steps to the throne room.

This is being written on mobile so sorry for any spelling mistakes. If it bothers you then tell me. Again, reviews would be nice.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer; I don't own The Hobbit. All OC's are mind like Aranduil.

Happy reading!

It is impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate, we measure our follies and accomplishments.

-Arya from the Inheritence Cycle.

There wasn't a lot of thing things that could make him nervous. He was a natural born leader, that comes with having a level-headed/strategic mind and a good control of his emotions. Yet there was one person that made him uneasy everytime.

"I see you have come to grace us with your prescense lieutenant." King Thranduil said snidely as he looked down on him. Ther was no warmth in his eyes.

He was left to hide in an emotionless mask, "My sincerest apologies my King, I was tending to one of my men who was injured in battle." His face was focused on the ground. He was kneeling infront of his father, his head bowed low.

Thranduil scoffed, "And you did not leave that to the healers? That is their job." He remarked coldy. You can see they shared some similar traits. "Do not bring me excuses."

"Understood your highness." He dipped his head lower.

"Good, now rise."

Aranduil stood up, facing his father but not making eye-contact. In his thoughts he could never hold a candle to the regality his father possesed. He watched as Thranduil turned his heel and walked towards his throne with long time-consuming steps. Each step there was an audible 'clonk' from his heeled boots.

"I've heard word of a nest overstepping our borders."

"Yes, north by the Forest River." He specified further. The next few minutes was him recounting the attack. He retold it in detail, how many were injured after, how large the nest was, and if there were any cassualties or accidents that happened. Questions were raised and were answerd to the best of his knowledge.

His father did not look pleased with the events that took place.

"They are multiplying faster every passing day." Aranduil concluded grimly. It explained everything. The spiders getting bolder, their attacks in such numbers, and the reason there was a nest so near their stronghold.

The king remained silent, his eyes distant. Aranduil waited, knowing he was likely to be planning their next actions to be done. He did not like the thought of their enemy growing stronger either. Something needed to be done. And soon.

"Double the gaurds at the front gate. Make sure there are archers ready on the balconies and the rest armed and wary from now on. We are defending our borders more thoroughly now." He orderd.

The lieutenant nodded once, "And the nests?"

Blue eyes similar too his bore holes into his soul. This was a sign that he should be worried.

"Gather your best soldiers. Ride out into the woods and destroy the nests, every single one. Leave none untouched."

He was right, "I mean not to object but should we not wait for the captain to arrive? If I am to leave the palace should he not stay to govern the gaurds while in my absence." He inquired.

"The captain won't be returning for the next three days. We cannot wait that long." Thranduil answerd.

"Then who is to take my place to lead the gaurds in the palace?"

"Legolas should manage your role."

Call it an exaggeration, but his face would have contained an expression of utter shock and offence. As if he had been slapped in the face outright with no reason as to why. The tone used in that sentence sounded as if it was implying a lot more. Anger surged through his veins.

"Legolas?"

"I will not repeat what I said."

He knew he shouldn't inquire further. That would only sound like an insult to the king if he questioned his orders. But he was infuriated. It sounded as if Legolas was more suitable to be the lieutenant.

His hands curled into tight fists. It wasn't much of a surprise, the show-off was Thranduil's son, and Aranduil wasn't one of his officialy no matter how many of his people knew the truth.

The doors opening interrupted any further ponderings.

"Adad."

Oh how he felt the urge to sneer furiously at the person walking in the room. He kept his composure. The only clue he was mad was his hands now white from curling his fists so tight.

"Ah, son perfect timing." Thranduil proclaimed facing the elf prince, "I have a job for you."

Legolas bowed his head, "I will do my best to complete it." He said earnestly.

'Don't steal it while your at it.' The lieutenant wanted to say but kept it in his head.

"You will assume Aranduil's authority to order the gaurds in the palace while he his occupied with destroying the nests."

The prince brightend when he heard of taking the responsibility of lieutenant in the palace temporarily when he heard the last part of the sentence. He frowned.

"You do not want me to aid in disposing of the nests?"

"No, that will be Aranduil's mission. You shall stay here in the palace."

It was clear the heir to the throne did not liking the arrangement but he knew as well as Aranduil not to test the king.

"Now go and get ready for supper." Thranduil said closing any more chance to say anything more.

Legolas' turned to look at his brother to see what he thought of this. Aranduil brushed him off crudely. If he had paid attention, he would have seen Legolas' eyes shuttered coming to think of an entirely different conclusion or he would have noticed how the woodland prince' steps were quick when leaving the room.

"If that is all your majesty then I will take my leave." The lieutenant said briskly. He had just turned half-way to face the exit out of this tense air he was breathing in when he was held back.

"I heard you faught excellently."

That caught him in surprise. He faced his father again but he wasn't even facing him in return. The king was reading a book in his hands, as if it was more important than paying real attention to his son. But just saying that was undoubtubly unexpected.

"It is expected of me."

"You're right. Have one foible then do not bother trying."

Aranduil falterd. Why was he saying all this? It did not sit well with him. He couldn't tell if he was complimenting him or not.

"Understood."

"But why did you heal the gaurd?"

"He was injured." He needed to avoid this topic. Thranduil didn't need to know he was trying to avoid him as long as he could. No matter how obvious it was.

"There are healers for those."

Aranduil sighed, "Does it matter? Why do you ask?"

The book snapped closed, "Nothing, I was merely trying to make a conversation." Thranduil glared at him then left.

When he was sure the king was long gone, he breathed out in relief. He hated almost drowning in the intensity of their exchang of words. Why did his father hate him so much? It was a question he had asked before. One that crushed his childhood to shards of hurt. He grimaced.

'Don't ponder it too much Aranduil or you'll lose your composure. ' he thought.

You have to be perfect or everything will be nothing but a failure. There was no cutting it short. That was what he dedicated himself to. It was how he got this far. Hardwork.

All his time was commited to work. In his free time he would be seen in the training grounds perfecting his aim, honing his swordsmanship, practing any other weapons he coud get his hands on and sparring others in hand-to-hand combat. It was necessary, and it got him to being the youngest to join the Royal Gaurds. It earned him the title as Aranduil the Brilliant. Promoted him to lieutenant. Friends and comfort were of no use to him.

A sense of frustration bubbled inside his chest.

He gazed at the direction his father went in.

*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*·*

At the crack of dawn, the platoon of woodland elves leaded by Aranduil were about to embark on the hunt to abolish the nests plaguing their home. The sun shone brilliantly down on the earth, its light welcomed in every meadow, forest, and land though with the exception of the dark and eerie woods in Mirkwood.

After donning his leather armor and weapones, Aranduil set out to meet the troop put together by his choosing. It didn't take a hint to know he was colder than usual. Others in the palace who knew him stayed more distant sensing it was one of those times the lieutenant wasn't in the best of moods. That was worse than his normal attittude.

Unsurprisingly, he glared when Legolas appeared and remained to ignore his existence. That, no one thought was abberant. It was common between the severed brothers to act that way in each others company. The lieutenant of the Royal Gaurds cruel and neglectful, the woodland prince silent and cautious.

Once sure they were set with supplies the group dashed into the haunting woods of gnarled trees, jumping on one branch to another, they travelled off the ground.

An hour later, they found one of the breeding grounds. They were quick to charge in. The day they had in store for them was a long, tiring one. It went as a rush for Aranduil. Spiders came from every direction, him cornerd in a sea of black.

It was like that the rest of the day. When the sky started fade into a pinkish hue, a camp was made for them to take a rest and heal. They demolished a total of four nests that day. A feat to be impressed.

To the leader, he cared not. He wanted to return as soon as possible. It was unnerving to fathom what was going on in the palace at this moment. He was still mad at the idea of Master Show-off was taking his place that he rightfully owned. Not that it wasn't the first time that prince stole something from him.

"Sir, I see a light over there!" one of his troops announced getting onto his feet.

His attention was caught. Turning away from observing the supplies they had he followed his gaze to the direction the elf was pointing to. There, a few ways from their camp, was a flickering light in the darkness. It was recognizable that light was fire.

"Impossible.", He mutterd, "What else can be in these woods?"

A voice behind him spoke, "Travelers intruding through our lands?"

"Only a desperate fool would enter Mirkwood. The illusions would break them, or the spiders would get to them first." Another said, it was Alakir.

"Nevertheless." Aranduil said, "We must investigate any who enters Mirkwood."

The fire they made was put out and their things safely secured, together they stalked stealthily towards the suspicious source of light. They took cover behind the trees and bushes but the darkness of the night aided them most. So far the intruders hadn't noticed their prescense or heard them sneaking up on them.

It was a simple bonfire in the middle of a clearing with nothing or anyone in the area whatsoever. It was just there, crackling and sending out a pillar of smoke from its flames. An odd sight to see. No tents, no chopped logs, not even a single trace of a camp being here.

Aranduil shared a befuddled look with his troops, his eyebrow raised. He recieved in return the same confused expression. This was all too suspicious. Sensing no one around or so he thought, the lieutenant emerged from his hiding place and approached the large fire. It was burning on logs and dead branches piled up.

Dead silence reigned the woods that evening. No faraway screeching from the feinds lingering, no creepy howling from the chilling wind, nothing. Everything was waiting. Holding in a breath. Awaiting for something to happen.

They did not predict a blood-curling screech to erupt. On instinct, arrows where pointed to the direction they though was where the sound originated from. Then came the rumbling. Almost like thunder in the distance. The ground vibrated, by what none was sure. But it sounded like footsteps. Lots of them.

It was too late.

Aranduil sensed them now.

Orcs.

Living above ground, unlike the Goblins of the Misty Mountains, they are less stunted and diseased than their kin, although they too dislike the bright light of day, bred as they were in darkness. Armed with scavenged and remade weapones, and in league with dark forces.

The band of elves had huddled close to each others as the orcs closed in on them. An ambush.

This had made a turn for the worst. There was no escape for now. Aranduil scanned the situation for a plan to make a retreat. They were outnumberd by hundreds. How they managed to sneak into the Mirkwood without anyone seeing was beyond him. But now they were trapped. And chances of survival looked low.

The orcs growled and snarl at their faces. Their terribly crafted weaponry were menacing to see in the dimming light of the fire. Possibly poisoned too.

With no option of running, there was only one left. Draw their own weapones that insulted the other party with the gleam of light the arrowheads and blades emitted, and the faultless craftminship.

Aranduil had taken down over dozens of the filths yet they kept coming. It tired him greatly. The battle may have lasted hours from when they faught back to defend themselves. He had lost sight of his men as they were sucked in a sea of orcs.

Slash. Dodge. Parry. Stab. Swing. Side-step. Slash. Thinking of moves in one secont was out of the plan, pure instincts kicked in and took over his entire self. Time was nothing now. All that it mattered was making this out alive and return home with his troops.

Some of the orcs had cursed at him once his blades peirced and cut through, but just like their faces and forms have been corrupted, so was the tongue they spoke that came out as an ugly mixture of gutteral noises and harsh snarls.

Out of nowhere, a sudden screeching sound boomed, sharp and penetrated his sensitive ears like a needle making his head go buzzy. Pain exploded from skull, rattling his teeth and shook his core. His own cry of agony was deaf in his ears as blood pounded into them.

Attempts of getting back up was futile when heavy blow hit him square in the ribs sending him down to the ground clutching his side. The enemy saw their chance and took it, they ganged up on him and started kicking and hitting while lay defenseless. Excrutiating pain resonated from his broken ribcage. He groaned and coughed violently, spewing blood from his lips.

When he looked up his vision was blurry, everything was going immensely slow then, as if time itself was gradualy pacing less and less. His head was spinning as it was feeling light. It could have been mistaken for a dream if it wasn't for the immense agony he felt burning inside and out of his body. Yet he couldn't move. The pain overwhelmed his senses. He couldn't register his armor and weapones being stripped off him and ruthlessly seized.

Aranduil didn't want to wake up.

Waking up meant feeling pain again. To face the horrors of the world and realize the cold truths and lies. For the ice in his heart to devour him over and over. But life never did turn to his favor.

As soon as his eyelids flutterd open not only did his conciousness return but so did the feeling of his injuries.

"So he lives."

His eyes darted to see who it was that spoke. Right infront of him stood a figure coverd in a tatterd cloak, a hood concealing his face. Though he could not see it but he knew the mysterious person was glowering down at him.

Aranduil attempted to back away when he felt bindings on his wrists. Inspecting them his throat constricted. Both his arm were chained to two wooden poles, one on his right and left. He tugged on them eagerly even if it was in vain. The chaines barely budged. The position he was in left him vulnerable, knees on the ground, arms tighed, armor and weapones confiscated. His injuries were still fresh, the healing had not even started.

"I would not bother." Aranduil looked back up at the hovering figure. The claoked person was circling him like a predator around his prey. "You will not be going anywhere elf."

Said elf narrowed his eyes at the stranger. "Who are you?"

"A useless question. The only real thing to ask is who are you?"

"What?"

"Who are you? I may know." He turned to Aranduil. "No one."

An animalistic growl caught his attention. Finaly seeing where they were now, Aranduil could only make out his surroundings thanks to the hellish fire from the torches. It was dawn by the color of the sky, he knew they were no longer in Mirkwood. They were out in the grassy plains that resided out of his homeland. Orcs that ambushed him were watching him, mocking him with snarls and saying things in abhorrent orcish language.

"Unwanted amongst his own family."

His head snapped back to the sight of the suspicious person in dark clothing. How did he...?

"Never good enough for his father."

He cringed when he heard that and averted his gaze from the one still talking to him. That voice. It was raspy yet booming. A throaty roar that manipulated the hearer to listen and believe what was being said.

"A failure because of his existence. "

"Trapped in the shadow of his younger brother."

"The son Thranduil never wanted."

For once Aranduil lost his control on his temper and glared at the figure that came to a stop back infront of him.

"You know nothing." Aranduil spat.

A deep laugh came. Insulting what he said.

"How ironic of you to say that because it is you who know nothing."

"Whatever you are playing at, it will not work."

"We'll see now won't we Aranduil the Brilliant?"

The figure made a gesture with his hand that made the crowd of orcs surrounding them part away making room for one, large orc to pass. He had to be the most feircest one for half of his face was metal and the same went with his body, his skin more purplish and had a sickening sneer that showed pointed teeth. Aranduil trailed his eyes down to see the whip and crooked knives the tall orc was holding.

A lump formed in his throat and he almost choked on it while his hearbeat quickend considerably.

It would be a horrific scene, the perfectionist of everything and anything loosing his equilibrium. Not a soul had seen him in anything other than his scrutiny expression.

"I hear words about you elfling." The figure chuckled cruel, pitch in their voice slurring, sounding crazed. "A born leader. The best strategist. The prodigy genius. The strongest fighter." He leaned in too close to his face for the elf's comfort. "The closest person to perfection."

Aranduil shiverd. In that hood that coverd the person's face were two red orbs staring at him, peircing his soul with the malice and evil they held. Tearing the walls and safegaurds he continually rebuilds so often it became habitual. Now he truley felt vulnerable. His last line of defence in ruins.

"But now I see the complete opposite." He snarled at the blonde. "Before me is a chained spirit. Broken, beated, and left to rot in its misery. You are nothing to anybody. The forsaken leaf."

Aranduil didn't expect it to afflict him so hard. The words just said echoed in his mind. They could be lies. Yet he knew they weren't. His mind wanted to object, to spit on the person who dared to offend him but somehwere, his heart, it whisperd to him.

It's the truth.

A cold hand grabbed his chin abruptly. It held his face up to stare at the deadly pale face. He could see now that he was so close. The person in the hood was the meaning of the word 'fear'. It wasn't a person. It was a haggard corpse, skin already peeling off the bones of his face and eyes glowing red.

His chin stung when the long untrimmed nails dug into his flesh almost tearing through the surface.

"Where is it?!" The person, no, the creature inquired tersely. "Where is my gem?!"

"...gem? I know nothing of a gem."

"Lies! You know. She must have told you!" It yelled.

"I speak no lies! Who is 'she'?"

"If you know what is best for you bastard, then you will tell me the location of my gem!"

It was a threat. And from the orc standing next to him with the whip and knives, Aranduil knew what was going to happen.

"Yell all you want! I cannot answer if I do not know the answer."

A kick in the stomache was recieved. It made him grunt and grit his teeth trying to push down the pain.

"You have braught this upon yourself elf bastard." It hissed.

It backed away just in time as the large gundaband orc came towards him with the whip raised and ready to strike.

The nightmare had just begun.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit. Aranduil is my OC.

"You have brains in your head. Feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go..."

\- Dr. Seuss (Oh, The Places You'll Go!)

"How is he?" Beorn quered, peering over the brown wizard to look at the -yet again- unconcious elf prince.

He was calm, unlike Radaghast who was ready to blow a gasket from worry. He checked over the handsome blonde elf delicately and eagerly. Aranduil was pale, not the flawless pale skin tone glowing with health he had, but it was a sick pale. Eyes rimmed red from tears, hair a tangled mess, and face frozen in an expression contorting both sadness and terror. A sad sight to see. For an elf to be in such a state. Especialy one so young.

"Fine! Perfectly fine!" Radaghast cried exhasperated, "I do not understand! Nothing is wrong with him to cause him blacking out!"

It had been a few minutes since the woodland elf had left reality. It started when Beorn had explained to him how long he had been comatosed in. That was a shock for the blonde but then it escalated to a full scale hyperventilation. Aranduil had fallen out of his chair, fainting. Then when they tried to wake him up, he started thrashing his arms and screaming his lungs off.

His eyes were wide with panic. When Beorn tried to grasp his arm it resulted in him screaming louder as if the touch lit his arm on fire. It continued for a little while then died down to Aranduil whimpering and sobbing on the floor, curled up in a ball.

This left the two muddled greatly. In the beginning, the elf had showed himself to be someone with power and authority with how he held himsef when he stood. Someone to be both feared and respected. Seconts later he went down to a crying mess, becoming so vulnerable in minutes...

"What now?" The istari mutterd, stroking his beard trying to come up with an idea.

Beorn sighed, this was turning to more trouble than he'd thought. But if the boy was truely so helpless, he would show some compassion to the elf. Turning to the door, he planned to make more hot water. The blonde beauty was shivering.

"Let him sleep. Wake him up if he starts screaming. Whatever it takes, wake him up."

The wizard nodded, "That would be a good idea." He mumbled then turned back to make sure Aranduil was comfortable where he slept.

Aranduil didn't know when or how long, but he found himself opening his eyes lazily. He found himself to be back in the room at Beorn's house. He heard snoring and dismissed it to thinking he was the one snoring before he did a double check and rememberd he didn't snore in his sleep.

Turning his head to the side, he found the brown wizard sleeping on a wooden chair. A rather funny sight as he was leaning on to his staff and rested his cheek on the tip making him slumber in an akward position with his hands hanging down.

There was less light in the room now. It was now dawn and the room was only illuminated by a lamp he had not seen before in a room.

Feeling something warm on his head, he reached out to touch a wet peice of clothe placed on his forehead. They must have taken care of him.

He slowly sat up, resting his back at the wooden board of the bed. Peeling off the wet rag, he placed it back in the container filled with water that must have been warm at some point but now cold. He sighed, how did he get like this? They were having a pleasant conversation then... he wasn't sure what happend. But he rememberd memories of his time at the orc camp was replaying. As if he was sent back in time to relive that hell again. He subconsciously shudderd.

He didn't dare think of it, for he knew it would just lure in the chances of those memories to resurface. So he tucked those memories in the very back of his mind, caged in by lock and key. That would be best.

Then he heard the door creak open. It was slow this time, letting light enter the room from its opening gap. A shadow draped into view, a large one with a bulking figure. Beorn stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He carried with him a lantern that added to the light from the lamp.

He saw Aranduil awake, "Hungry?" He inquired bringing the light up to the side of his head showing his bearish features.

As if on cue, there was a loud rumbling sound, grumbling and squealing. Aranduil had never been so surprised by himself. Did his stomache just actually rumble? Appearently so as Beorn laugh shortly, making Aranduil blush with embarrassment. It was so loud, it woke Radaghast from his sleep.

"Lightning! Thunder! Storm!" He gasped, waking up with a jump and falling off his seat.

The two just stared at his fallen self and turned back to looking at each other.

"Dinner's still warm. Get it while you can." Beorn said as if nothing had happend.

"My thanks." Aranduil dipped his head.

Beorn nodded and turned to leave out the door. When the door finaly clicked shut the istari had finished gathering his bearing on the carpet. He brushed himself of dirt and saw the elf awake in bed.

"Aranduil! Oh you don't know how glad I am to see you awake." He said rushing towards him.

"Radaghast, do you know what happend before I blacked out?" Aranduil asked curiously.

"You cannot remember?"

"I have no recollection of the events."

Radaghast scratched his beard, "How odd." He mutterd, his face darkend and it was surprisingly scary. The room was already dim litted but it seemed to grow darker around the wizard. Aranduil -out of pure panic- stepped back.

The wizard saw his reaction. As if he just realized what was happening around him. An apologetic look appeared on his face. "I'm terribly sorry!" The room went back to normal, and the darkness vanished around him. "It tends to happen during my ponderings."

Swallowing hard, the elf nodded weakly but said nothing.

Another rumbling sound.

Aranduil glared at the floor, hating himself. His stomache would not shut up. He tried not to rub it with his hand as it ached and growled for food to fill itself with.

"That's right! You should be hungry." Radaghast chirped and grabbed the blonde's arm. He proceeded to lead him out of the room but not too quickly as Aranduil was still limping.

Aranduil didn't shrug him off, he wasn't confident his legs were strong enough yet. He was starving, falling off his feet would delay him of getting any food.

They reached the dining room. There was a fireplace keeping the vicinity warm and a lantern on the long wooden table. It was next to a steeming bowl of soup and a cup of water waiting for him.

The scent of the supper hit his nose and much to his loathing, he almost drooled. This was most humiliating. Improper for him.

Stop complaining and eat, a voice in in his head orderd.

He sat down in one of the chairs. That was more exhausting than he expected. Pushing any other thoughts away, he dug into his meal. He sniffed the ingredients. Still warm. He grabbed the wooden spoon.

Minutes later, he was half-way done with his supper he noticed a missing prescense in the threshold he was in.

"Where is Master Beorn?" Aranduil asked looking at Radaghast who was sitting next to the fire with a pipe hanging from his mouth, blowing out smoke shaped as rings.

The wizard didn't seem to hear him at first, too distracted staring at nothing with a dazed look as more rings of smoke came out from his ears. Aranduil quirked an eyebrow. "Huh? Oh, er...out. He gaurds his land during the night. Patrolling its borders from trespassers, such as orcs and goblins." He drawled, looking almost hungover.

"He gaurds his own land? I see he is threatening by his height and built but does he not sleep?"

"He doesn't need rest when his change happens."

"Change?" His eyebrows furrowed.

"Beorn is a skinchanger. He can take a form of a man or a bear. You would perfer meeting him as a man as he is more reasonable."

Skinchanger. Yes, Aranduil had heard of such a race. Once many living in the mountains until the orcs came from the north. It was clear now. How the man was so tall and his bear-like features. Not really a man, not really a bear either. He heard of him from stories he heard as a young child.

"He will be back when the sun comes up. No worries now prince Aranduil." Said elf winced at the title of prince going wiyh his name. "Eat and gather your strenght, you need to get better."

"You musn't call me 'prince'" Aranduil said, looking away from the confused wizard.

"Why not?"

The elf sighed. So he does not know the full story.

"Listen closley. And do not under any circumstances must you tell another soul what I shall tell you tonight"

Radaghast agreed, serious this time.

So Aranduil told him. It was painful having to explain it. He never liked this tale, this story of how he became who he was back in Mirkwood. There was a reason nobody called him prince. Why no once dared to call Legolas and him brothers -except Alali who held a higher place in his life-. Why he was only regarded as 'The Lieutenant of The Royal Gaurds'. And the one reason why his father hated him.

Aranduil understood though sadly. Why would he like seeing him when he was a constant, living proof of his unfaithfulness. He was lucky his father took him under his wing. Let him have a room in the palace.

He tried to find another purpose. To gain some other title than one he could never have. That was when he joined The Royal Gaurds.

"I am different from my brother Legolas. You know of him?" Radaghast nodded. "While he is Thranduil's wife's son, I am not. He had two wives."

Radaghast's expression was comical. With his mouth open in an 'O' shape, his eyes wide as saucers, and dropping his pipe absent mindedly from bafflement.

"I know. Elves do not re-marry. But Legolas' mother had caught the king's heart at first sight. A love so strong and blinding, they feel for each other." Aranduil let his head fall, casting a shadow over his face. "And my mother was left behind." It was almost a whisper, one of hate, like a hiss but Radaghast heard.

"Y-you are..."

Aranduil looked back up at the disheveld wizard, gazing upon him with unreadable eyes.

"I am a bastard."

Daylight came when the sun started to peak up from the horizon. Beorn entered his home, shutting the door behind him. He turned his attention to the table in the dining area. The bowl and cup were gone, washed and placed in the cabinets. The elf must have eaten and cleaned up after himself.

Speaking of his house guest, he headed towards the room Aranduil was staying in. The wizard's slay was still here so he must be watching over the woodland prince.

His guesses were confirmed once he opened the door to the room and entered to meet the sight of Radaghast snoring away in his chair and Aranduil in bed, sleeping quietly.

He stared at the wizard for a moment then went back to study Aranduil. The prince's condition improved from yesterday. The bags under his eyes were gone, the red blotches of skin was slowly fading from his skin, and there was more meat in his body now. Before he was close to being just skin and bones but muscles were slowly starting to form under his clothings.

Aranduil was sleeping on his left side, eyes closed. Elves normaly slept with their eyes opened, entering only a trance-like state instead of sleeping but unless they were gravely injured and need much more rest, they would sleep how Aranduil was sleeping.

Beorn was going to leave the elf to sleep and make breakfast for him and theses two when he heard a whimper.

Glancing down, he watched as Aranduil's peacful sleeping face turn. He started squirming, grabbing the sheets and pulling on them. There was a choked gasp and low mutterings.

Nightmare.

Kneeling down, he grabbed Aranduil by the shoulders and shook him awake forcefully, calling his name and telling him to wake up.

Aranduil's eyes snapped open to reviel horror filled orbs. He gasped and sat up. He was huffing and panting, he was sweating. His hands were still gripping the sheets with his shoulders stiff and tense.

"It was just a nightmare." Beorn said standing up.

"Nightmare..." Aranduil held his head in his hands. "...only a nightmare"

He knew the elf was unnerved by this. Elves didn't have nightmares. Atleast, from his knowledge. They're minds were too wise to be tricked by itself. They didn't get so easily disheveld.

"Good morning."

Aranduil bowed his head, "Good morning."

"Breakfast will be ready soon. I'll draw a bath for you." Beorn hoped not to provoke the young elf any further. Before he left the room, he spared a glance over his shoulder. It was only for a moment, but he swore he spotted the blond sniffle.

Aranduil stared at his hands. What was happening to him? These nightmares weren't supposed to be so vivid to him. They felt so realistic. He kept dreaming of himself being through gruesome realities and his father mocking him, saying words he'd always feared would be spoken.

How weak he felt. The humiliation, he hated it. Brushing away the bangs away from his eyes the room was silent...

Wait.

Bangs!?

He scrambled to the floor faster than lightning. Waking up the brown wizard in the process. He ignored the spluttering old man and searched for a mirror. Opening the drawers, he rummaged through the contents until he caught a gleam of light shining. A small handmirror with a polished, silver frame was held up infront of his face.

"A-Aranduil..." Radaghast said soothingly, knowing full well where this was going.

No. Nope. Just no. Placing down the mirror, the elf gingerly ran his hand through his golden blond hair. He was used to it going all the way down to his waist, but no it fell short. Right above his shoulders.

His hair, the one he had been birthed with was replaced with a messy, choppy rat's nest. The thing that labeld his heritage and relation to his family.

Radaghast watched as the blond stared at his new hairdo and cringed once the mirror was set down. Aranduil coverd his eyes with his hands, facepalming with his teeth gritted. He seemed to be trying very hard not to cuss.

"It's not a bad style, truely." He commented to the dreaded elf.

"Do not." Was the reply. Calm and steady but the anger behind those words did not go unnoticed. "Leave me be. Just for a minute. Now."

Knowing what was good for him, the wizard left quietly.

Aranduil sighed, letting his hands rest on the desk. All the rage bubbled up inside him leaked out to creat an aura of red hot rage around him. It's presence could make an orc army start running. The birds must have sensed it too for the music they made outside his window had went dead silent.

Looking at himself now, he barely was recognizable as Aranduil the Brilliant. His hair was longer and spiked up at the top, going down his neck like a golden main and stopped. He tried to supress the scream bubbling in his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

**So...miss me?**

 **Author's Note: I was surprised people reviewed to this. I thought about putting this up for adoption but I may just work on it if you really want to read more.**

 **Sorry for the crappy elf names. Aranduil will get better. It'll just take time.**

Live in the present,  
Remember the past,  
And fear not the future,  
For it does not exist and never shall,

There is only now.

-Saphira from The Inheritence Cycle

~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·~·

Thranduil examined the ruined area on top of his elk. The outskirts of Mirkwood were in shambles. The ground was clean of grass and trampled with mud and ashes. The remains of an orc camp litterd the place like a battlefeild.

Nothing alive was left by the looks of it. That made him frown, for a tingle of fear and worry was present in his chest.

What was left of the camp was burning. The filths were smart enough to burn any evidence of their stay but the elves were fortunate to have gotten there before everything turned to smoke and ashes.

"My king!" Two scouts appeared seemingly concerned as they approached their liege. "We have grave news."

The elven king wasn't keen on hearing the answer for he already knew what was about to be said. "Speak." His voice was laced with uneasiness. In his mind, he prayed his...son...was breathing still.

The scouts swallowed nervously, fearing the reaction from their king but also felt some condolence for him.

"There is nothing here anymore sire. The orcs, they're gone."

Thranduil nodded knowing that by just looking at the place.

"No survivors?"

"None." The two said in unison, eyes trained on the ground.

No one might have seen it but the reigns in his hands were gripped tighter and the king's shoulders were stiff. It did not show on his face but looking hard enough there was genuine dread in his grey orbs.

"There is more sire." One of the scouts added gazing up. "Please follow us."

With another nod, the two headed forward in the burnt down campsite. The other elves that came along trailed behind their king glancing warily everywhere. There was a terrible essence left in the air. It set them on their edge except for the scouts that were focused on leading their king to the destiation in mind sharing guilty glances at each other and the king himself who had his mind on another thing completely.

They got to the center of the camp where two wooden poles jutted from the ground. Strangley, they didn't look burnt or damaged and left abandoned. Possibly on purpose. The king ponderd on that until the scouts pointed at a spot on the ground.

Following their gazes he stared at the fallen shackles on the ground chained to the two poles. His attention shifted to the thing that made his witherd heart drop.

A pool of blood was left on the ground where the shackles lay. It was in a crimson hue so it belonged to no orc, but could very much belong to an elf.

Not wasting a secont, he dismounted his proud noble elk and walked closer to the scene in a slow and hesitant pace. Crouching down, he stared longer to see a small glint, shining faintly in the red puddle. Setting aside the disgustment, he plucked the object out from the blood pool with disdain.

Wiping the red liquid off to see what it was, he braught it out and held it high above his face to view it properly.

It took seconts for him to find his voice. There was a great effort put in to not start stuttering or having his tone crack while he spoke.

"Gealdir?" Thranduil asked for one of the scouts.

"Yes sire?"

"How long was the camp gone for now?"

"Two days and a half."

"..."

"...sire?"

Turning to face them, they were surprised to see his face drained of any colour.

In his hand, Thranduil held the small clasp that Aranduil favoured and wore in his hair to keep his braids held. Smeared in blood despite the attempts to clean it with his sleeve.

Now it struck him on what went on in this camp. In this particulare place they stood in. In that one terrible night.

Eru...please, no.

"SEARCH PARTIES! I NEED SEARCH PARTIES SENT NOW!"

Aranduil never registerd a time wherein he felt botherd by actual physical pain. Emotional pain he knew too well, had so much of it that the aches and injuries acquired in a fight was nothing. He trained himself well past his limits nearly twenty-four seven. Damage to his body came and went with him, it was rare he ever did get injured. Maybe he had felt the pain of scratches and bruises years ago, when he was young and innocent. Oblivious to what sentiment could cost.

But now he could feel it.

It wasn't the burning bubble in his chest, or the non-excistent pain his heart felt as if stabbed, or the stinging prickle in his eyes, or the suffocating lump forming in his throat nearly choking him. This time, it was real pain.

He felt fire burn inside him everytime his lungs took in air, his heart -daresay its still working- was deadbeat but beating, barely, his eyes rather stayed closed for they stung if tried to glance left or right, and his throat was experiencing the worst ache. Every breath of air was more like a breath of fire.

This was real.

He had to wake up. He knew that much. If his eyes were closed then anyone could get to him then. Mustering up the energy, he let his eyelids flutter open. The first thing he saw after the blur in his eyes cleared up was a ceiling not belonging to his chambers. So he wasn't at home. Of course he wasn't. The memories were still fresh. Horrible, horrific memories of the torture he recieved.

Craining his neck to survey the room more, he frowned when he saw he had never seen this place befre. He was currently laying on a soft bed with white and yellow sheets and three pillows supporting his head. He saw a window with sunlight streaming through the glass. It lightend his spirits to finaly see day. There were minimum furniture. Only a small desk with nothing on it, a fireplace, and a bookshelf packed with various coloured books and scrolls.

It made him panic of course. The experience before he blacked out had set him off. He no longer could hold on to that fake confidence as before. For the first time in forever, he felt scared. As if he was reverted back to an elfling.

Then the door to the room creaked open and his heart-beat quicked. He scrambled to sit up and desperately tried to grab at his weapones when he realized they were gone. Did the orcs still have them?

A figure stepped into the room. A large one. Their head slightly touching the ceiling. Aranduil wanted nothing more but to have his trusty blades with him then and there but he was helpless yet again.

The figure was male according to it's built. Heavily muscled and nearly eight feet tall, with a great beard and a mass of dark hair, an intimidating and imposing man stood before him. On secont thought, with closer observations, the large man did have the features of any male man but his height was that of a giant and too much hair on his skin.

Aranduil swallowed, keeping calm though his eyes betrayed him for once. They were filled with fear and uneasiness. He wonderd where his strength had went, he felt more than tired then. He was drained. Not just of energy, but of will. The will to stay awake. To keep going. Whoever or whatever this being was, he prayed it would give him a swift end instead of hours of constant torture and hell like his time as the orc's captive.

But the being stopped, and stood to stand next to the bed he was tucked in. Aranduil's eyes were locked with dark brown ones. The giant man bent down, Aranduil braced himself for a blow, a hit, a punch, anything, anything that went with pain. But instead, a bowl of hot liquid was placed on the table next to his bed.

"How are you feeling?" A deep rough voice inquired.

Aranduil stared with wide eyes at the giant man. He did not expect that to happen out of all things. Tense silence.

"I asked how are you feeling?" He asked again.

"...fine." Aranduil replied, still surprised by the turn of events. He was so sure he was ending up assaulted again. Now that he thought, why would he be here in bed if this person wanted to hurt him. Surely he could have just finished him while he was injured. Yet he healed him and wrapped his wounds. His sudden awakening to reality must have left him dazed if he made such a rushed conclusion. Or it was the memory of the lashes and cutting that made him so jumpy.

The giant man nodded and stood back up to his full height.

Aranduil kept his eyes on the large male. "Where am I?" He asked, eager to know his location. How far was he from Mirkwood?

"My home." The man answerd, turning to face away from the elf. "I found you injured badly in my land. Braught you back here."

Aranduil looked down at the bandages. They coverd his entire body. The only place wherein his skin was exposed was his face and head. Though there was a bandage wrapped around his forehead as well. No wonder it hurt to move.

"You should stay down, it is a miracle itself your still alive." The man -or should he call him his savior?- instructed seeing him wince trying to stay sitting upright.

"How far am I from Mirkwood?" Aranduil asked instead. If he wanted to rest, he needed to do so without worry of how far from home he was.

"Not far." The giant man said, he went back to facing Aranduil and gently push him down by the shoulder to lay down on the bed. "Now rest."

Aranduil would have objected if not for the burning sensation on his skin. Pain was creeping back and he rather be unconcious for it. So with reluctance, his mind slipped back into darkness.

This time he came back to with someone rattling his ears off. He groaned, half-asleep. How could he rest soundly if some loud mouth couldn't give him the peace and quiet he needed?!

"He's waking up!" A voice gasped. It wasn't the voice of his saviour. It was a much higher pitch, sounding a tad crazed.

Since he wasn't getting any silence soon, he let his eyelids open to face the harsh light of day. Blinking rapidly, he tried to adjust to the brightness of the room. His senses were coming to and he could smell a putrid scent...was that bird feces?

His nose scrunched up in disgust as it filled his nose. His head turned to look at the source of the smell. It definitly wasn't the same man as before. This man was the opposite of the other. He was short and stout, wearing a filthy overcoat that smelled and looked like it hadn't been washed in decades, on his head was a loopsided hat and stringy blonde hair coverd in twigs, leaves, and white bird droppings. Had this person never heard of a bath? His scent would make a pack of wargs retreat.

"Ah! You're awake! What a relief, it would have been such a horror if you did not come back to the world of the living." The man said, going back to mumbling nonsense. Aranduil caught a few things like "he would have had my head..." and "so young..." and something along the lines of "like lemon... yes that!"

Aranduil searched for anyone else in the room. He spotted the giant man behind the stout one, silent and with crossed arms. The was good. He did not want to be stuck alone in a room with this nut.

Turning back to the old man, he was still occupied with mumbling to himself. Akwardly, Aranduil cleared his throat. He immediatly caught the nut's attention.

"Who are you?" He asked simply.

"Who am I? Oh yes! Of course, of course! I didn't introduce myself, how rude of me. Where are my manners? Especialy infront of you," the man stutterd for a moment, "I am Radaghast, Radaghast the Brown! Your majesty." Radaghast bowed.

Aranduil watched with shocked feelings. He just... called him 'your majesty' and bowed. As if he was a prince!

Radaghast must have noticed his reaction for he began to fret. "Oh dear! Oh my! What have I done to upset the prince?! Was it the bow? My sincerest apologies!"

"No, no." Aranduil waved him off, "I am not offended."

"Well thank goodness!" Radaghast sighed in relief.

"But how do you know who I am?" The elf asked, curious. "You have not been to Mirkwood I cant tell, so how do you know me?"

"How can I not know who you are?" Radaghast mused. "You are Aranduil Thranduilion are you not?"

Aranduil cringed, "I can't say I am." At the confused look from the old man he clarified. "It is complicated. But thank you for the acknowledgment. You are the brown wizard?"

"Why yes I am!" Radaghast chirped. "Beorn here had asked me to come and treat your wounds. They were very serious." His eyes grew darker. "Some were poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Aranduil tensed.

"But don't worry!" The brown wizard assured him. "I managed to remove them from your blood. Just in time too! A few minutes more then you would have-" whatever Radaghast was going to say was interrupted by Beorn.

"Can you stand up?" He asked the blonde elf in bed.

"I... I am not sure." Aranduil said, pulling up the white blanket covering his legs. His trousers were replaced with plain brown ones, much bigger than his were. The bandages were gone. They looked fine, but the thought of walking sent an uneasy tingle down his legs to his toes.

"Maybe you should try and take a few steps." Beorn suggested. "Walk it off."

"Oooh! But don't you think it's too soon?!" Radaghast objected. He glanced from the elf to Beorn with worry evident in his eyes.

"I can do this." Aranduil said. He was actually saying that to himself more than to the concerned brown istari.

Getting out of the covers, he pulled his feet over the bed and placed them firm on the floor. The floor was smooth like marble but felt also like wood. The tingling feeling grew. It made him nervous, but nothing stops Aranduil the Brilliant from accomplishing a task. Grunting, he threw himself up. No pain, but his legs wobbled. They were unused to getting back up again after so long of non-use.

Radaghast stayed close to him, ready to catch hold of him if he fell. Aranduil had a few close calls, stumbling and faltering in his steps, but he managed to gather his focus and strength to walk across the room and stand straight in front of Beorn. Being Aranduil, he stood with shoulders pressed, back straight, and head high. This felt familiar.

Beorn stared at him, his eyes boring holes at him. Aranduil couldn't get a good read on him. There was no telling how he felt. But he also knew the mysterious air around the large man. He was three heads taller than the elf and Aranduil was known for being a tall one among his kin!

The man nodded, as if he passed a test. Aranduil felt satisfied and took the chair offerd to him.

"You musn't strain yourself." The istari commented. "Those were some wounds I must say. And from Beorn's words they were in worst state when he found you!"

"How long ago was that?" Aranduil asked while taking a sip of the stew he had been given. It settled the dry ache from his throat. He tasted only a few spices and chopped vegetables.

"A month." Beorn answerd bluntly from where he sat.

Aranduil came close to spitting out the stew in his mouth. A month!? "I was out cold for a month!"

"You were awake whenever I fed you, you just don't remember it." Beorn added.

"A month... Eru... I... what...-" why where the walls spinning? His sight was blotched with black spots. The bowl in his hands fell to the floor with an echoing crash. His hands, they shook violently, he had no control. It felt like a spirit had possessed him. He felt fear. Fear. Terror. Horror. The emotions wrapped around him and squeezed him so tight he could barely breath. He tried gasping for air but it was a loss cause. Then a flash.

The room he was in dissipated. Melting into shadows. Voices of Beorn and Radaghast fading into distant whispers then to silence. They were gone. He was left to rot in darkness.

Images passed his vision, his mind. They were all stained with red. He saw himself scream with unimaginable agony as a crooked blade sliced the skin on his back, tears had streamed down his face as a whip slashed the open wound, blood pouring down like waterfalls. More images appeared in his head. The tall orc that tortured him so was infront of him again. It sneered cruely, bloodlust and malice in its eyes. It thrust a knife through his shoulder. Then twisted it with the hilt, and pulled it out forcefuly, spraying more blood into his vision.

Aranduil screamed. Screamed so loud it would leave anyone deaf but no one came. No one had saved him from the orc. The said orc continued with its gruesome sport. A metal bowl with steaming muddy liquid was doused on his injured back. Acid. They dumped acid on his open wound. No words could come close to describe how he felt. This was no nightmare. This was the lowest part of hell. And he was sure this was where his last breath would be stolen from him. If they ever would let him die.

They enjoyed this. More orcs appeared, behind the orc beating him to death. They jeered and pressed for more blood. They wanted him to suffer a long eternal torture for their amusement. Not a single face in the crowd surrounding him was kind to him. He wanted so badly to see someone he knew. Alali. Gealdir. Alakir. Maybe even his brother.

Anyone, please...save me... end me... help...

In a secont the scenery vanished. But replaced with its face. The person in the black cloak. The corpse with daggers as eyes. The one in charge of his torture. He rememberd it giving orders. Asking him questions that made no sense time to time. Then after a while, gave up on interrogations and mocked him. Told him things it knew about Aranduil that no one should know. As if he could see deep down his darkest mind.

"No one will come for you. Forsaken Leaf." It hissed, voice so lucid and mad it shot gallons of trepidation inside Aranduil. "Your life is worth nothing. Not even a prince in his own kingdom. Doomed to be a tool belonging to your king. Disposable, breakable, and now...useless."

The words...why did they seem so true. He believed them. How could he say he was a lieutenant of the Royal Gaurds now? Here he was, near death, beated, stabbed, bleeding. Broken. No one cared then. They never will. What use was he? Everything he had worked for. His image, his confidence, his will, shatterd. Blown by the wind as dust. The Brilliant he no longer was. He no longer deserved.

The corpse was still there. Silent until it lunged at him. It got so close to his face. But no longer was it the corpse. It was his father. Thranduil. Sneer in place, and eyes colder than he had ever seen them. He glared at his son with distaste and dissapointment.

"You are a disgrace." He snarled. Then melted back into the shadows. Leaving Aranduil forsaken again. Forsaken...

Yes, that was what he was.

Nothing could match the pain in his heart. No number of lashes, cuts, beatings, burns could equal to the feeling of his entire world falling and crumbling. The Brilliant he no longer was indeed...


End file.
